Monkey Business (18 page)

Thursday, January 1, 2:10 a.m.

I
s it time to go yet? I've had too much champagne and I'm now feeling frisky. I pat Sharon on the knee. “Shar, you ready?”

It's two-ten, definitely time to leave her sister's New Year's party. All that's left of the chips and booze are crumbs and bottles. Most of the thirty guests have left. Rena, unfortunately, is still here. Whenever I'm not paying attention, she corners me to harass me about school.

At eleven she wanted to know if I'd gotten any grades back. I told her I hadn't checked. At eleven-thirty she asked me if I had gotten any interviews.

“Yeah. BCG, Accenture, Stewart & Co. and O'Donnel.”

“Good for you!” she exclaimed, while straightening her ridiculous tie. I'm not wearing a tie, so why is she? “Who are you waiting for?”

“Bain and McKinsey.”

“I'll see if I can get you an interview with McKinsey. I may have some pull now, you know.”

Second-years had their interviews in October, and Rena has been gloating about her McKinsey acceptance all evening.

Sharon kisses me on the cheek and stretches off the couch. “Let's get our coats.” She has a pimple on her chin. In all the years we've dated, I've never seen her with a pimple. She fought with it for twenty minutes before we went out tonight, with ice cubes and concealer creams, but it still shines through, red and angry. For some reason, the pimple calms me, reminds me of her flaws. If she finds out about Kimmy and never wants to speak to me again, I'll remember this pimple. Since I've been home, I've found myself rejoicing in all of her flaws. Her short temper with her mother. How she won't let me smoke dope. How she insists on manning the remote control.

I tell myself that this is what I won't miss when she breaks up with me.

Inversely, every time she does something sweet, like bake my favorite chocolate peanut-butter brownies, or kiss my finger when I somehow slice it on a butter knife, or when she wears the purple V-neck mohair sweater that makes me want to lay my head against her stomach and be held for hours, the one she's wearing right now, a knife spears through my heart. And not a butter knife. A machete.

We pick through the pile of haphazardly thrown coats on her sister and brother-in-law's bed until we find ours. My scarf was once stuffed in my jacket's arm, but is now missing.

Beep.
Apparently there's a message waiting for me on my cell, which was inside my jacket pocket.

Sharon looks at me with curiosity. “Who called?”

Beep.
I should definitely have turned off the message alert. “I'll check later.”
Beep.

“No, hon, check now. It could be an emergency. You never know on New Year's.” Her forehead scrunches, and I know her well enough to know that she's imagining her parents stuck in an overturned car, their only means of survival getting in touch through my cell phone. I open the phone and type in my code.

“One new message, left January first at twelve-oh-three.

“Hi, it's me,” Kimmy says. Oh, man. I press the phone tight against my ear in the hopes of shielding her voice. “Happy New Year! I'm at a bar right now, drinking!” She sounds hammered. “I miss you. I have something important to talk to you about…” I erase the message quickly and turn off the phone.

Sharon stares at me funny, as if I'm changing into The Hulk while she's watching and she's not sure if she should tell me I'm turning green. “Who was it?”

I shove the offending mechanism into my pocket. “Friend from school.”

She's still staring at me. “Female friend?”

Could she hear the message? “She's in my group.”

“Stop picking,” she says, swatting my hand away from my face. I've been staring at her pimple all night, I didn't realize I had been picking one of mine. “You've never mentioned a female friend in your group.” Her fingers are doing up her coat, but her wide brown eyes are still on me.

“I haven't?”

“No. You haven't. What's her name?”

I concentrate on looking for my scarf, which should be somewhere on the bed. “Kimmy. There are two girls in my group.” I've decided that the best way to play this is to act as though it's totally normal that she called me practically at the stroke of midnight.

“Who's the other one?”

“Good, here's my scarf.” I pick it up and double wrap it around my neck. “Lauren.”

“Did she call you, too?”

“No.”

“Don't you think it's weird that this Kimmy-girl called you?”

I shrug. She probably wants to listen to the message. That's why I erased it, in case she asks. “No. She probably called everyone in the group.” Good one.

“Is she pretty?”

Damn. She can sense something. “She's all right.”

She folds her arms across her chest. “Maybe I should come and visit you this semester.”

Oh, man.

Monday, January 12, 1:00 p.m.

I
nstead of basking in the Miami sun, I'm back at the overheated Zoo, quizzing Layla before her interview with Silverman Investments. I'm sprawled across my bed, my booted feet hanging over the edge. She's pacing from one side of the room to the other. Click-clack (she's on the wood), silence (she's on the carpet), click-clack (other side of the room near the desk), pivot. She accidentally kicks my pile of last semester's textbooks and swears under her breath. (I don't know what to do with those books. The school bookstore won't take them, and there's no used bookstore in the area. Do they really expect us all to buy new books at full price every year when these are available?)

She looks tanned and fantastic. In her knee-length charcoal-gray skirt suit and matching fitted jacket, she looks like a serious teacher who might at any moment rip her clothes off.

Sexy Pacing Goddess: Ask me something else.

Me: If you were a flower, what kind of flower would you be?

SPG: That's ridiculous.

Me: That is not a good answer. You will not get the job if you call the interviewer ridiculous.

SPG: Then I'm a Venus flytrap. Because I can trap success wherever I go.

Me: Much better! (She can trap me anytime she wants.)

SPG: (Scowling.) I hate interviews.

Me: You'll be great.

SPG: Thanks. Crap. It's one-ten. I have to go.

Me: Your interview isn't until two. And it's in the Katz building. You don't want to sit there for forty minutes.

SPG: You're causing me unnecessary stress. I have to go. Crap. My shoes. I can't wear these shoes outside. It's snowing. My nylons will get soaked. I can't show up at an interview with soaked nylons. I need to carry my shoes. But what will I do with my boots? I don't want to bring my schoolbag. What do I do? (Her eyes look wild as if she's about to get hysterical.)

Charming gentleman: Milady, I would be honored to accompany you to the Katz building and then return here with your boots.

Layla gasps, then joyfully hugs me. “Thank you!” she gushes. “You're a godsend! Can we go right now?”

I escort her first to her room to get her coat and boots, and then to the Katz building. She sits on a wooden bench in the main hall and reaches to remove her boots. I gently slap her hands. “Allow me, milady. I wouldn't want you to go to your interview with soiled hands.” I unzip each boot slowly, relishing the moment.

“Oh, wow, I love you,” she says, blows me a kiss and runs to the elevator. “Wish me luck!”

Love you? I wish. “Good luck,” I say. I have no doubt she'll get the job. I saw her first-semester transcript by her bed this morning. She had a 4.0. Who has a 4.0 in business school? I only got a 3.3. I wish I were in her group. Both so I can work with her, and so I can watch her work.

I step outside and the snow lands directly on my bald spot, numbing my head. I forgot my hat. Again, why am I not in Miami?

This week is interview week, which unfortunately cuts into winter break, but it's not as if I have any interviews lined up. I just can't bear to work for a bank or a consulting firm. They seem so soulless. I need to have a job I'm passionate about. I guess I can always go back to writing. But I think I prefer to be in a career that involves more companionship than a computer.

So why am I here? Sunshine notwithstanding, I was bored in Miami. And I knew Layla would be back.

I have it bad.

“Excuse me,” sings a blond undergrad in a parka and hat. Ringing a bell, she says, “Can you spare some change for the Children's Hospital? We're trying to raise money for the new pediatric oncology department.”

I get instantly depressed. Here I am whining about my future. There are people out there, children, who might not even have a future. I reach into my pockets. All I have is a five. “Here you go,” I say, placing the bill onto the tray. I wonder how the kids' ward at Miami General is doing without me.

As my bald spot continues to freeze, I have an epiphany, which I decide to share with Kimmy. Back at the Zoo, I knock on her door.

“Hold on,” I hear from inside. The door clicks open, and she scampers back under the covers. As far as I can tell, it's just her.

“Kimmy, my sweet, welcome back! Lover-boy not here?”

“No. He's flying back today, I think. His first interview isn't till tomorrow.”

“When did you get back?”

She sits up in bed. “Last week.”

I lean against her desk. “So early?”

“I had to apply for a loan.” She groans. “Don't ask.”

I don't. “When are your interviews?”

“I only have two. One on Thursday, one on Friday. I'm glad you woke me, Jamie. I should start researching the companies.”

“I'll let you be, then. I just have a question. What did you do with your last-semester books?”

“Nothing. They're piled over there.” She points to the corner of her room. “Why?”

“Would you give them to me? I want to hold on to them and sell them to the first-year students next year. I'm planning to donate the proceeds to help fund the pediatric oncology department at the Children's Hospital.”

“Definitely,” she says. “I'll even help you collect them. That's a great idea. Why don't we make up flyers and then hand them out door-to-door throughout the Zoo?”

Something occurs to me. There Kimmy was telling me she needs to apply for a loan, and she's willing to give up the proceeds from selling her books privately next year. She really does have a heart, after all.

I return to my room, feeling a familiar rush at the idea of making a flyer. I don't think I can handle working for a hospital full-time again—living it, dreaming it, breathing it wasn't right for me—but doing part-time work makes me feel great. Ideally, I should have a career that's creative and that allows me time for charity work on the side. I'll start collecting books tomorrow. Good thing I don't have too many clothes. My closet is about to become a storage room.

Forty minutes later, boots still in hand, I decide I should go pick up Layla. Why not? I don't want her to ruin her adorable shoes.

A half an hour later she spots me in the lobby of the Katz building. “You came back for me? I love you!”

If she tells me enough times, I'm afraid I'll start to believe it.

Thursday, January 15, 10:10 a.m.

I'
m sitting in room 316 of the Katz building, waiting for my O'Donnel interview to begin. Five hopeful prospects, including me, are waiting in this mini-classroom, each sitting in a different row. I'm sitting in the back row, and am very uncomfortable in my suit. What is the point of a suit? Really? And why blue? And why a skirt? Of the five waiting to be interrogated, three are guys, and I find their ties even crazier. Why is a rope around one's neck considered formal? And why for a man and not a woman? Maybe I should apply to Ralph Lauren instead of to a consulting firm. Right. As if any clothing chain besides Frederick's of Hollywood would want me working for them.

None of us wants to be wearing a suit; we'd all rather be in sweats, or at least jeans, but nope, suit it is. I'd rather be in my bed, naked, with Russ.

I bought this navy-blue atrocity especially for today. Do I have to get a second one if I make it to the second round? My coat is definitely wrong. All I have is a short ski jacket in candy-apple-red from the Gap. The three guys waiting
all have dull, gray, wool, appropriate coats. Why didn't I think of buying an appropriately dull coat? At the moment my highly inappropriate coat is bunched behind me in my seat. Maybe I should hang it up. When they call me in, the interviewer won't see the flaming mess and think that
I'm
inappropriate.

I hang it on the back of the door, then return to my seat.

I'm going to do fine. I will. My eggs aren't all in this basket, anyway. I have an interview with another firm tomorrow. And I've been practicing cases all week. All vacation. I can do this.

Not sure what to do with my hair. It's in a tight ponytail for now, which I think makes me look serious. I hope it doesn't give me a headache. I'm feeling too good at the moment to have a headache. Russ came back last night. I wasn't sure what to expect, after a month of Sharon.

No one's going to stop me from getting what I want. Not my dad and not Sharon. And not my period, since I'm still taking the pills.

As soon as Russ saw me, he slammed my door behind him, pushed me against the wall and kissed me hard. Phew. Maybe they're over. Maybe he broke up with her. We haven't talked about it yet. I didn't want to bring it up when we have so much else to worry about. (I don't want him to think I'm a nag.) He has Stewart & Co. this morning, BCG this afternoon, and O'Donnel tomorrow. I just have O'Donnel this morning and BCG tomorrow afternoon.

A man pushes open the door. “Ms. Nailer? We're ready for you.”

Here goes nothing. Or everything.